For Pat McCormick
(To hear Shelley recite this poem, click here.)

Part I: Not Yet For The Crafter Of The Joke

("Flutterphobia: A morbid fear of
a bird flying out of your toilet"
- Pat McCormick)

Surprisingly,
no sign of death tonight, his breathing
now a gentle adagio, almost
a display of skill. He will not
die tonight. Tonight, perhaps, he'll
stand and make us laugh again; big
clumsy oaf, again to speak with spittle
on his chin. Does he know?

(How can he know, recall a breath of
that earlier watch? Night of the Monitor:
of watching the blighted light-show of
timorous, evanescent numbers, of listening
to the coarse fragmented cadence of his
jittered gurgles - pneumographic chaos -
each dangling breath his last, and I,
pressing his limp, unimplicated hands,
babbling an urgency of lies to ease his way.)

Does he know?
I lean to see him better in his bed; lean
to help him when he wakes to find my face;
unmoving, soundless from
his pillow, find my smile. It is a
ruse, of course, as are most smiles.
He will wake to see my smile and think
I am enjoying him.

Does he know - remember that his
life was crafting folly into words? (What folly
now that he is word-deprived.) I, leaning
closer, work my thoughts, my crafty
smile, to wake him. Patience. He will
not die tonight. He will wake and smile
at my smile. Without words, the crafter
of the good joke will smile, "Yes, I know."
But he will not tell us what.

Part II: Lost Is The Crafter Of The Joke

We knew, we knew what he
could not, and incrementally
we'd come to settle on the
stillness of our times together;
in the quiet of his face, seek
the pleasure of a wink, the treasure
of an old-time wicked smile.

Come to search his
eyes in hope of mischief, hear
one slight censorable sigh.

Come from having known him
better - known the rapid ravelled
carnival-ride turns of his way, of
his humor. He could not stop then.
And then, neither could we.

Lost and lost again is
The Crafter of the Joke.
And lost
and lost again
have we.